


the price of a prince

by aswellingstorm



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 2.21, 2.21 reaction fic, Angst, F/M, Spoilers, everyone reacting to jugheads cliffhanger but bughead centric, lots and lots of it, obviously, post 2.21
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 01:32:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14631282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aswellingstorm/pseuds/aswellingstorm
Summary: When FP looks Jughead’s bloodied and mangled body, legs curled as if he were protecting himself and previously tattooed arm laying towards the side, he sees failure staring back at him. His own failure.or, a post 2.21 fic that features the gangs reactions right where the episode leaves off (bughead centric).





	the price of a prince

When FP looks Jughead’s bloodied and mangled body, legs curled as if he were protecting himself and previously tattooed arm laying towards the side, he sees failure staring back at him. His _own_ failure.

 

FP used to think that the worst a father could get would be Clifford Blossom; the worst thing a father could do was shoot his own son right in the head. But as he leans down to the floor of Pennys hideout and carefully picks up a body-his _sons_ body  that feels far too much like _dead_ weight-he believes he’s outdone Clifford Blossom by a long shot.

 

Dully, he recognizes that this is where it all began. With Clifford Blossom dragging Jason into the basement of the _Whyte Wyrm_ and callously putting a bullet through his sons head without a second thought. As FP cradles his son-his _boy_ he chokes up, dark eyes squinting with tears that begin their slow descent downwards. His blood, and there’s so much of it, too much of it, begins to soak into FPs shirt and he recalls Jasons blood.

 

What began with the spilt blood of a son now ends with his own son, lifeless and dangling as he carries him out of the forest. He was horrified when he saw Jason’s blood, but now he simply feels…broken. His gut is twisting nervously, his pulse is racing but nothing compares to what he feels in his heart, waves of all-consuming anguish and regret.

 

FP pulls his boy closer to his chest, tightening his grip as they walk. A parental instinct wants Jughead as close to him as possible, some unfeasible part of him believes this way if Jughead’s pulse were to weaken any further, he’d be able to notice instantly. He never should have helped that damn man, never should have gotten involved with the Blossoms-that much he knows. But he’s also acutely aware that one mistake with the Blossoms hasn’t nearly killed his son-it was a litany of his own mistakes that put him there.

 

He knew Fred would’ve never accepted any money-but FP earnestly wishes he paid his old friend off just to watch Jughead while he was in prison. He regrets not calling Gladys from his cell and pleading with her to take their boy to Toledo. He wants to punch his own damn self in the face for not screaming at Jughead over the prison phone when he came to confess he’d joined the Serpents. He bears the shoulder of the blame for suggesting the street race that ignited the fight with the Ghoulies in the first place-and for what? Land? Pride?

 

He tries to keep his gaze up as he trudges back to where he hopped off his bike. But he can’t stop looking down at Jughead-his true pride. The Serpents were a mere speck of dust in the universe compared to his son. His heart swelled with joy with every word his boy wrote, every A he brought home. But he’d lost sight of all of that, and was clutching the bleeding end results of his actions for dear life.

 

The world is moving too quickly around him-he feels like he’s going so fast, like he’s sprinting to get Jughead to help. But his legs are slow, shocked and behaving as though they have anchors tied around them. He can’t bring himself to look at the arm, the place where Jughead’s tattoo  had been torn off and all he can wonder is why he didn’t take that god damn jacket off of Jughead the second he set foot out of prison.

 

He thinks if he was a good father, he would’ve kicked Jughead out of the serpents. If he was even a _shred_ better than Clifford Blossom he wouldn’t be holding his sons lifeless body. As the blood doesn’t stop running and the pulse fades ever more slightly, all he can do is think about how he failed his son; how his own weaknesses could be costing Jughead his very life.

 

Sweet Pea sees him first-but admittedly, it’s not truly Jughead that he sees. He catches a glimpse of the boy-the Serpent Prince, and the memories of the gauntlet flash across his mind. He remembers the last time he saw Jughead with blood on his face; a result of Sweet Pea’s own doing.

 

But seeing Jughead in this state-so fucked up, it’s wrong. It’s like nails on a chalk board, and he feels his skin itch. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. Sweet Pea wouldn’t ever admit he cared for the Jones boy, but he could at least say that he planned to spend his whole Serpent career in a mock rivalry. Always on opposite sides of the same coin, always him accusing Jughead of siding with the North. Always antagonizing one another, all in the name of betterment for the Serpents.

 

He’s pissed off. He’s really _fucking_ angry because the stupid asshole had to go off and get himself kill- _nearly_ killed, Sweet Pea’s brain corrects. There were two options in this scenario-roll over to the Ghoulies or fight like hell. They couldn’t surrender to those pricks, not a chance in a hell. Not even if meant losing their lives-because at _least_ they went down for believing in something, for standing up for themselves. At least they went down with each other, united.

 

But of course, Sweet Pea clutches his fist before slamming it into a nearby tree, the fucking moron had to try to find a third way. He’s so mad he’s seeing red-the whole world blending into the color of Cheryl’s jacket. This only spurs his anger forward-when will he _stop_ seeing red? Fangs blood, the blood of the riot, and now the blood of Jughead-how many of his friends will he have to watch _die?_

 

And maybe, the real problem is Fangs. Maybe that’s the root of his anger. Because not two hours ago he was told that Fangs was dead and he had the opportunity to avenge him, to take all of this god damn anger out on something even if it was just a death march. But then Jones took that away from him again, and Sweet Pea can’t even be mad at him-because there he is. Dangling in his fathers arms, and _holy shit_ is he even breathing?

 

Sweet Pea sees Jughead, underneath veils of _red_ , with flashes of his best friend in a body bag somewhere, with a bullet right through his stomach.

 

Toni doesn’t recognize him, not at first, not as they load him into Archie’s truck and speed out of there like they’re in _Fast and Furious._ His face is caked in blood and already swelling. That’s not what bothers her about him-what _bothers_ her is that he won’t open his fucking eyes. Not when Archie yells for him to wake up, not when they jolt him trying to get him into the truck, not when Betty gently cradles his face-his damn eyelids won’t open.

 

She remembers him being so animated, passionate about whatever topic they were discussing. Whether it was the Southside, her grandfather, Hiram-he spoke with such emotion, such force. There was so much life behind every word he spoke and now…he can’t do so much as move a muscle.  His face is pale, from what little of untainted skin she can actually see.

 

Part of her wants to believe it’s not him-that this has all been some mix up. She wants to believe that Jughead did it again-he outsmarted everyone. He sent in a doppelganger so he can appease the Ghoulies and Penny, letting them fight over some dummy while he watches safely from the woods. She wishes so badly that they’d pull up to the hospital and he’d be there-leaning on her motorcycle with a smirk and say _“Do you think that fooled ‘em?”_

 

She looks nervously to Betty and Archie, hoping that this is some sort of ruse that they’re all in on.  A trick to save all of them-including themselves. But she sees them, she sees how very real the pain is on their face and she recognizes that for the first time in his life Jughead was not one step ahead of anyone else. There was no trick up his sleeve… correction: him being the sacrificial lamb _was_ the trick up his sleeve.

 

Now there are no more aces, no more options. There are no Serpents or Ghoulies, Northside or Southside, no Blackhood or sinners; just _him_ bleeding out in the back of some beat up truck. And in that moment, that’s all that matters.

 

Cheryl is the first to speak, and it’s only to voice her disdain for Archie’s driving. “I _hope_ you do better than this on your actual drivers test, Archie. Lord knows you can’t possibly do _worse_.”

 

She’s met with silence-nothing if not sad, stressed looks. She’s said worse things, more inappropriate things and always garners some form of a reaction. But they all look at her, if they even do, listlessly, unimpressed. She doesn’t know what else to do-it’s her job to be the snide, snobby one. Holier than thou, fiery, and can verbally destroy _everyone_.

 

She spares a glance downward, looking at Jughead before darting her eyes away quickly. She can’t help but realize that while Archie will have a driver’s test he’ll inevitably fail-Jughead might not. Jughead might not even live to the end of this car ride. He may never go to prom, he may never get so much as another glance at his dearly beloved Betty again.

 

Such a thought forms a lump in her throat that’s hard to swallow. She looks back to Toni and knows that never seeing her again-it’s a thought she can’t bear. She can’t imagine what her dear cousin is feeling right now, only wishes she’ll never experience it for herself.

 

Cheryl doesn’t want to look at him-she acquaints it to looking at a deer on the side of the road. You know it’s not going to be a pretty picture, so why torture yourself and look at it? But maybe, as she sucks in a breath and steels herself to stare at her bloodied classmate, that’s not true.

 

Maybe she can’t look at him because, even as she does so right now, she relives the feeling of her open palm sliding across his face. Of publicly embarrassing him by slapping him in the middle of the school, when he was merely trying to apologize. Of every time she called him _hobo_ , of every time she wished ill upon them due to the complicated webs their families weaved together.

 

Seeing him teetering on the edge of death is like a bucket of cold water being dumped on her. It’s a rude awakening. Because every negative thought of him she harbored, she regrets. She never wanted anything truly bad to befall him, she never wanted him to look like _this_. Especially not after he helped her rescue Toni.

 

The truck hits a pothole at about fifteen miles over the posted speed limit and everyone in the truck emits a sound of pain, except for Jughead. Who hasn’t made so much as one sound since FP found him, and it breaks Cheryls heart. Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she thinks if she could have _one_ role in the group, it’d be the protector. To make sure something like this _never_ happens again.

 

“Archie,” Veronica’s voice coos out softly, in a way only her boyfriend can hear. “Slow it down, we’re not going to get there any faster if we’re dead.”

 

Archie’s eyes flicker over to meet hers-nervously, desperately. “Veronica. _Don’t_ say that word right now.”

 

She gulps at her own mistake, not realizing the weight of her statement. It makes her feel worse and she didn’t even know that was possible. She watches Jughead’s body in the rearview mirror.

 

It’s like someone’s poured liquid nitrogen down her throat. Her insides feel like they’ve been turned to ice and she feels the weight of the pearls around her neck choking her at the same time. It’s like the string is constricting-infinitesimally at first but growing stronger and stealing more and more of her breath.

 

She tugs at it nervously with a light hand, feeling nausea wash over her. She feels to blame for this. Her involvement in bringing the Northside and the Southside together could’ve costed her boyfriend’s best friend his life-her best friend’s boyfriend- _screw it_. Jughead was her friend too. He was her _friend_ and now she’s saying _was_ as if he’s already a lost cause.

 

She didn’t treat him well, she laments. She brushed off his worries, lied to him to protect her father. When in reality, it was Jughead she should’ve been trying to protect. She should’ve seen this coming. He was the grayscale in the black and white world of the Southside vs. the Northside. He was bound to be collateral damage, to get caught in the middle of it all.

 

Sorrow courses through her veins and she thinks she’s the first person in the truck to start crying. To start truly bawling-to lose it completely. But Jughead’s dying-her friend is dying. Someone else is hurt and what did she do to stop it?

 

Nothing.

 

She’s not even sure if she could’ve done something-this probably has nothing to do with her father anyway. He was out all night up to god knows what-but something instinctual tells her that maybe her father’s hands are covered in more blood than just Andre and Small Fry’s.

 

But he can’t be dead. He can’t die. Not like this. She knew they weren’t as close as they could’ve been-but she had always pictured long nights spent with the four of them, road trips, beach vacations, promposals, graduations, tearful college goodbyes, wedding planning-not this. Not Jughead, who looks so _vulnerable_ and helpless right now.

 

_Dead. Don’t say that word. Dead._ He can’t be dead. This stuff-it didn’t happen in New York. The worst thing you could do is be caught with a little cocaine on you and have your parents take away your keys to the Porsche for a week. Your friends didn’t _die_ , and you didn’t have to watch them do it from the review mirror of your boyfriend’s truck.

 

They come to a skidding halt in front of the Riverdale General when Archie feels déjà vu overtake him. He whips open the back door, where FP has been clutching Jughead the entire time, with more force than necessary, not even caring as the door slams backward and hits the front door. He helps FP out and begins shoving through the doors and yelling for a doctor-for a gourney.

 

The last time he was here he was worried about his father. Every moment since then Archie’s dedicated all of his efforts towards protecting him. He was so focused on his father, he never considered the very real possibility of harm befalling his own friends.

 

Not even after Moose and Midge had been shot at. Not after Jughead joined a gang. Not after Midge had been killed. Not after the Blackhood reappeared. Not after Nick kidnapped him. Not after Fangs. Not after- _anything_. Because, while he cared about the entire town, he still never dreamt those he was closest to would be hurt-because that’s _crazy_.

 

When the four of them, Archie, Jughead, Betty, Veronica had all been in the hospital before he felt like they were untouchable. Like bad things happened to the people they loved, but nothing ever happened to _them_ directly. Yet all four of them, even Toni, Cheryl and Sweet Pea had been moments away from the kiss of death-all tonight.

 

They’re all still just kids. Jughead’s still the kid he met in the sandbox, who he traded pokemon cards with and played videogames with after school. Jughead’s still the first kid he had a sleepover with, the first one who looked over one of his songs and said “ _Not bad, man.”_

 

Jugheads still the guy who he can fight with but then fist bump it out with an hour later. Jugheads still the same Jughead who stayed at his house for weeks when he had nowhere else to go.

 

Jughead is his best friend. Betty’s boyfriend. Writer. Serpent. But most of all, Jughead is his brother.

 

His brother can’t be dead-he can’t be. Not yet, not when they’ve got so much life yet to live. They were supposed to have the world at their feet. They stayed up at nights and talked about what they were going to do when they left this shit town.

 

Jughead was the first person who asked him what he wanted to be when they grew up, and vice versa. They’re not grown up-this can’t be the end. When Archie said he wanted to be a freaking astronaut, Jughead didn’t say he wanted to be in a body bag. That’s not how this works.

 

Jughead is the North side of Riverdale, Archie believes, the know-it all journalist who helped solve Jasons murder. The awkward kid who’d linger on the sidelines of football games because his best friend started playing while his _other_ best friend became a cheerleader. He’d feel uncomfortable and out of his skin, but he’d still stay even if it was just to look moody. He’s the kid who didn’t fit in because he wasn’t content to pretend to be someone he wasn’t-because he didn’t mind calling other people like Reggie out on their crap. He’s the best friend that Archie, despite being somewhat embarrassed of him at times, would beat up anyone for.

 

He can hear FP explaining what happened to the team of doctors and nurses as they situate him on the stretcher-but all words feel like they’re underwater. He feels like everyone’s talking to him through a phone receiver that’s been submerged in water but he can see clearly, he can see that they’re moving too god damn slow.

 

What does it matter what happened? Or who did what? They just need to _fix_ him now. He doesn’t give a shit about the rest of the chaos happening in the hospital due to the riots, they need to fix Jughead. He thinks he’s got half the mind to tell them that and he looks up to realize that he already has, he’s spoken out loud without realizing so. The doctors look bewildered, but sympathetic. The rest of their gang looks unsure of what to say about his outburst.

 

It’s then, as Archie takes a step back with his hands behind his head, he realizes that Jughead is the Southside. Despite trying to fight it and trying to bail him out of the Southside, that’s what Jughead is. He’s not just a Serpent, he’s been their de facto leader more often than not. He cares about the Southside, he fought for the movie theatre, he went on strike for Southside High-but now as Archie takes a deep breath does he realize it wasn’t to _stick it to the Northsiders_. It was to protect the Southside-to prevent this war.

 

Because Jughead is both the Northside and the Southside. He is not one or the other, despite how badly people on both sides have tried to force him into one box or the other. Every move he made to help the Southside got him labeled as a traitor, Serpent scum. Trying to protect Archie or Betty left him as an unloyal Northside wannabe. But now Archie can see what Betty meant all of those months ago at the Jubilee-about Jughead being the heart and soul of Riverdale.  

 

He is the embodiment of the Northside and the Southside, he is the glue that binded them together. And that, Archie realizes, is why he’s being wheeled into the intensive care unit. He thought by sacrificing himself, he could save everyone-both halves of the town he loves.

 

Archie watches his best friend be carted away from a distance, a new type of anger coursing through him. He’s not even sure who he should take it out on anymore. He’s so unsure of everything-of who the enemy even is now.

 

He doesn’t have a fucking clue, that was always Jughead’s job, so he looks up to Betty. But she’s staring blankly into nothingness- at the spot where Jughead was just wheeled away. Hand out stretched and reaching for dead air, she’s vaguely aware of someone-FP? Wrapping her into a tight embrace. They whisper something into her ear but she doesn’t move or reciprocate the hug, she feels still. She feels like something in her stopped the moment she saw him carried out of the brush. Her breath still feels caught in her throat, her motions frozen in time.

 

Someone, faceless, sits her down in a chair in the waiting area. Her brain doesn’t register who it is and she can see familiar faces sitting around her. If they’re speaking to each other, crying or reacting in any sort of way-she doesn’t process it. She’s still staring straight ahead, withdrawn from the rest of them. All she sees is Jughead, the vision of him in his fathers arms.

 

There are patches of darkness blooming across her perception, she notes it building and swelling in her chest. And so desperately does she want to lean into it and let the darkness wash over her. It’s inevitable isn’t it? Perhaps her own father fought his darkness for some time before letting it consume him-maybe by fighting it she’s merely staving off the inevitable. Fighting a useless fight.

 

Will she ever get to tell Jughead about her father? How the Blackhood was him the whole time? Right under her own roof, the monster was never hiding under her bed-it was merely a few rooms down the hall. Sleeply soundly in the master bedroom as chaos unfolded throughout the down. How can she even process this, the knowledge of what her father has done when Jugheads-

 

_Who are we kidding? We’re on borrowed time._

_Borrowed time_. It’s a funny thing, Betty thinks. Despite his warning at his birthday party, Betty sort of assumed they had all the time in the world. They had time to break up for a spell or two, time to heal and grow together.

 

With everything she learned tonight about her family she felt herself yearning for him even before he called. Who else would understand everything that happened better than him? Who else could acknowledge her darkness-her _fear_ of it, and help her through it? Her mother simply glazed over it. Her father-that _man_ she was biologically tied to by DNA had condemned her to the darkness like a death sentence.

 

But Jughead was the light beckoning her to the shore of sanity before her anchor of darkness could drag her down into its depths. What would she do without the light?

 

_You’ve lost the love of your young life_.

 

It was a sombering thought one that, through the blink of an eye, brought her back to the present moment. She sucked in a sharp breath, looking around the room like a wild animal brought into capitivity. FP was gone-whether he left the building or was taken into another room remains unknown to her. Sweet Pea was tapping his foot nervously on one of the broken tiles of the floor. Toni and Cheryl were holding each other-soft brushes of hands on cheeks and the comfort of skin on skin. And Veronica had her arm laced through Archies, other hand comfortingly rubbing circles onto his shoulder.

 

Ghost of sensations-of Jughead kissing her knuckles, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, nervously grabbing her hand, warm hand against her cheek-what if she never felt that again?

 

Is this how Polly felt? Betty wants to wonder, but she knows Pollys immediate reaction, the break down. She watched her older sister, her former protector, turn into a shattered storm of emotions right in front of her very eyes.

 

Would her life forever be defined by this moment-this small crack of time? Is this the part of her story where she loses the light and embraces the solace of the night? For what else is there?

 

She flexes her hands, tired of the same old song and dance that ends up with crescent shaped scars across her palms. She’s not going to wallow or become a pity party of one, lamenting a life she hasn’t even lost yet.

 

Because there’s something different here. When there was ambiquity about Midge on that stage, a slew of concerned passerby wondering _is she really dead_? Betty knew there was no hope for her-that there was finaility where there was no pulse.

 

When she heard about Fangs being shot, she felt the same level of certitude-dismaying as it may be. Dead upon arrival or not, his fate was sealed by a bullet and Betty knew it.

 

But she didn’t feel the same here. She didn’t believe he was dead or going to die and somehow, perhaps foolishly, that didn’t feel like denial.

 

It felt similar to losing something important, a phone, a set of car keys-but knowing that you hadn’t _really_ lost it. It was just in the palm of your hands and you forgot where you placed I -is all. Whatever the item was, it hadn’t left the room, so it couldn’t be too far gone. This kept the panic at bay because whatever was lost, was not _truly_ lost.

 

Betty felt the same about Jughead, determinedly so. He was not gone, she had not lost him. Not yet, not ever. She believed him when he said he’d always love her, that’s how she knew he’d fight for his own life in the operating room. They’d see each other soon.

 

Because, together, they’ve got so much worth fighting for. There was a lot yet for them to live together. She straightens her ponytail and grips the charm of her necklace with a calm, determined breath.

 

Until she can see him, until he wakes up she keeps repeating in her head like a sacred hymn:

 

_Our story’s over yet_. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm aware i said i was on a slight writing hiatus from ATT & IYLM but i can't not react to an episode like that
> 
> as always you can find me on tumblr @aswellingstorm


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